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he RegulrrFelipw* Monthly 

I February 1922 price 

aJTWo Bits 




What has become of 
the old-fashioned 
girl who used to eat at 
home once in a while? 



Published by the Merit Publishing Co., 1005 Ulmer Bldg., Cleveland, O. 
25c per copy 


Well, brethren, Christmas is come and gone, and, even 
as all of ye, I am now in the process of wearing out the 
red neckties presented by the Dear Relatives. 

In order to properly celebrate the Happy Yuletide and 
the Glad New Year I got drunk on December 23rd and 
stayed so until this day (January 4th) when my lady 
friend, Stern Necessity, caused me to roll into these 
premises to forge out the present consignment of Near 
Humor and Sweet Sentiment for you. 

A half-hour after I sat down to work, my fat playmate, 
Councilman August Kraut came in and took me out to 
buy me a seidlitz powder and some lunch. 

Kraut is always intolerable, but this particular noon 
he was the Living Death. 


The louse sat himself down in front of my poor half- 
turned stomach and proceeded to stow away odoriferous 
corn beef and cabbage. 

Then, to add insult to injury, he began to feed me with 
the smart sayings of that tough little seven-year old kid 
of his, Cornelius. 

Now, of all the tortures known to man, I'm telling you 
that the worst is that of the Proud Daddy relating the 
wise cracks of his Hopeful Bimbo the day after Christ; 
mas. I shall spare you Kraut's monolog, only suffer 
with me, dear readers, while I repeat to you but one ex- 
ample of the sagacity of Cornelius. 

As related by Kraut, the night before Christmas a 
neighbor's boy, desiring to play a joke on Cornelius, 


went to a livery stable, picked something up from the 
floor of the stable, and deposited the pickings in Cor- 
nelius' Christmas stocking. 

The next day Kraut asked Cornelius : 

"Veil, sonny dear, vat did Santa Claus bring you?" 

"I think it was a pony," replied Cornelius, "but he ran 


A Krazypome by Mrs. Dingleberry 

'Twas a nice October morning 

One September in July, 
The moon lay thick upon the ground 

The mud down in the sky, 
The flowers were singing sweetly 

The birds were in full bloom, 
I went down in the cellar 

To sweep an upstairs room. 

The time was Tuesday morning 

On a Wednesday just at night 
I saw a thousand miles away 

A house just out of sight, 
Its walls projected backward 

The front was in the back 
It stood alone between two more 

And it was whitewashed black. 

The earth may not be flat, but the beer is. 



Music Blamed 

Jazzy Tunes Send Girls Wrong, Minister Says 

By United Press 

Chicago, Dec, 19, 1921 — Jazz music is why girls go wrong, Rev. Philip Yarrow, 

head of the Illinois Vigilance Association, charged today. 

"From the dance palaces of Chicago," said the Rev. Yarrow "from the dance 

rooms in country towns come girls whose entrance into the life of moral subnor- 

mality was accompanied by the music of the jazz orchestra." 

The minister said his association in the last year had traced the downfall of 1000 

girls to jazz music. 

"Feeble-minded morality is the first result of the weird, neurotic strains of the 

so-called jazz orchestra/' he said. 

The poor Blue Law Bimbo — Narrow Yarrow! 

He is dead from the navel both ways. 

Like the other Bony Boys of his ilk, he thinks that 
the eager, lively, youthful things of life are wrong be- 


cause he is too dried-up to appreciate them. 

This is a great human mistake that is older than the 

It is the eternal funny tragedy of the hatred of the 
Poor-blooded for the Rich-blooded. 

Moreover it is bad science. 

■ Narrow Yarrow doesn't know any more about the 
science of acoustics than a nigger porter does about Tran- 

As a matter of fact, jazz music is less incitive to im- 
morality than the passionate, dreamy strains of the old- 
fashioned waltz. 

My Great Uncle, in the year 1881, seduced a blond toe- 
dancer while doing the quadrille with her to the tune 
of "Believe Me When All Those Endearing Young 

In my green and studious days, I used to read heavy 
volumes by German scientists examining the reason why 
the wailing music of Italy provoked the senses. 

Not long ago I was in a movie show. The picture was 
that good old Methodist tear-squeezer, "Way Down 
East." The incidental music was "Darling I am Grow- 
ing Older." And you ought to have seen the sweethearts 
smacking each other in the dark ! 

Jazzy music sensuous. Bunk, say I ! There was more 
immorality in Paris in 1821 to the strains of the minuet, 
than there is in Chicago in 1922 to the strains of the Liv- 


ery Stable Blues! 

As we told you before, Dear Children, the Perverts of 
Prohibition are not in business to promote Morality, but 
to stifle Joy. 

No wonder we who are joyful hate their guts ! 

J. D. 


Mandy and Liza, two delicious colored wenches were 
holding a conversation. 

Even like their white sisters, they were discussing the 
eternal subject of men. 

Said Mandy to Liza : 

"Does your Sambo gesticulate much when he makes 
love to you ?" 

"Explain yourself, Black Lady. That am a great big 
word, gesticulate. What do you all mean by that in plain 
nigger words?" 

"Why, does he use his hands much? 

Oh, Mandy, Mandy, Lordy Goodness Sakes ! Now you 
said something! Does he? Does he? I'll say he does ! 

'I Never Cared for Liquor Till America Went Dry.' 



from Tia Juana, Mexico 

Well Brothers, Hot Dog Devoured Tia Juana. Every- 
thing is running along here per schedule and everybody's 
enjoying the privileges granted them by the Constitu- 
tion of the American Government so much that they have 
to go to Mexico to enjoy Life, Liberty and the Pursuit 
of Happiness. 

The races opened early in the winter as was planned 
but personally I would of had more to be thankful for 
if the races had been postponed at least another day. 

As Morvich wasn't racing I didn't know of anything 
sure to bet on in the way of a horse, so I took a tip from 
one of my best friends, that a certain horse named Moon- 
light was sure to win. But as soon as I had placed my bet 


on Moonlight it turned cloudy, and so far nothing has 
been seen of Moonlight since she left the post. But she is 
expected in on the first clear night. So the only thing that 
I had to be thankful for was that I didn't bet any more 
than I did. 

That night everybody celebrated the opening of the 
racing season, at a masquerade ball. It turned out to 
be just another race to see who could drink the most of 
their favorite brand. No winner has as yet been an- 
nounced, as more than two-thirds of the crowd haven't 
sobered up yet. 

I went in the costume of a doorkeeper. I hadn't been 
on the door very long when a beautiful young girl tried 
to get past me without any costume on whatever. I 
stopped her and said, "I'm sorry, Little Flapper, but you 
can't go in there unless you come in costume to represent 
some person or some object, the more simple the more 

"All right," chirped the young Chippie, "I'll get a make 
up on and be right back." 

Sure enough in about five minutes, this Broad comes 
back and when I lamps her I get knocked for a Goal. For 
all this baby had on was a pair of black gloves and a pair 
of black shoes and a broad grin. 

"How's this, Cuty?" she asks, "Is it simple enough for 

"No," I confess, "That beats me; what's the big idea?" 

"Well, you poor Sap," she says, "I represent the Five 
of Clubs." 

Believe me, Hot Dog fans, you ought to be in Tia Juana 
with your old playmate, Attaboy, now. 


The Regular Fellow Poet 

Editorial by Jack Dinsmore 

Burns has no rival in the art of singing the soul into song and setting the 
heart to music. His poetry is pure passion. Other lyrists are literary at their 
best; when Burns is literary he is at his worst. 

His note falls like the note of the lark straight from the throat of life. It is 
not an imitation of life, but life itself running into laughter and tears. 

Being life, it is not a grey moral thing, but a lovely riot of good that is not 
wholly good, and evil that is not wholly evil. 


Bobby Burns, the sweet singer of flowers and girls' 
The immortal laureate of Youth and the things that 
Youth loves — Wine and Wenches and Roses. 

He was just a gay, good lad, hard-boiled and soft-boiled 


by turns, just like you and I. 

At a time when Scotland was overrun by thousands of 
;our clergymen preaching hellfire and by hundreds of war- 
ring religious sects who hated each other more than they 
loved God — there in the drab atmosphere of Eighteenth 
Century Britain sprang the unrivalled artist who made 
poetry not out of books but out of Life. 

But more than that — wait. He wrote his verses not 
in the stodgy English of the court and the pulpit, but in 
the homely dialect of the lanes of Kerrymuir and the gut- 
ters of Glasgow. 

Dear readers, Bobby Burns wrote SLANG. And he 
drank whiskey, plenty of it. Scotch whiskey, 120-proof. 
And, as to the sweet Highland Lassies — you know how 
free he was with them. 

But then it has always been so. Poetry has ever 
sprung, not from the vestry room but from the alehouse. 

Shakespeare was a foul-mouthed poacher and stage- 
door Johnnie. You remember his vindictive "If Lucy is 
lousy, then lousy is Lucy." Dante was a knife-fighter. 
Francois Villon, "le pere du nous tous," " the father of us 
all" as French poets call him, finished his life on the gal- 

In the good old days when religion was liberal, when 
Wine went with Worship, there were learned men of 
the church, friars and pastors who loved books and the 
tender things of the heart that are enshrined in books. 

Said St. Thomas a Kempis : "Everywhere have I 


sought Peace, but nowhere have I found it save in a cor- 
ner with a book." 

And do we not all remember the backrooms of saloons 
and the Old Soaks who used to congregate there? Many 
of these Soaks were post-graduates of the greatest uni- 
versities and spouted Latin hexameters over their tod- 

But it is in the rural districts, the backwoods where the 
Blue Law Dominie rules unchallenged, that the most 
swinish ignorance is to be found. 

All the tenderness and all the recklessness of Life Mili- 
tant and Youth Triumphant are to be found in the poems 
of Bobbie Burns. One day he writes a boisterous epi- 
taph on a dead country evangelist like this : 

Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes, 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bletherin' bitch 

Into thy dark Dominion! 

And the next day he writes the loveliest ballad in the 
English tongue : 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, 
Flow gently I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock dove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild, whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den ; 
Thou green crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 


How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 


It was the driver of a van 

Who to his offspring said: 
"I'm just a rough-necked workingman 

Wot labors for his bread. 

But you should learn to read and write 

Reform the world and sich, 
To wear clean shirts and talk polite, 

And some day you'll be rich." 

And so the lad to school was sent, 
Where, as the years rolled by, 

He learned what Transmutation meant, 
And how to live to die 

And presently he could discuss 
Such really highbrow themes 

As Differential Calculus 

And Freud on Foolish Dreams. 

Meanwhile the rough-necked workingman 
With fond paternal joy 


Continued driving of his van 
To educate his boy. 

And often he would mop his brow 

And joyfully declare : 
"That kid o' mine ten years from now 

Will be a millionaire !" 

Today the kid is keeping books 

At ten a week for pay, 
And from the way the outlook looks 

That's where he's going to stay. 

And every morning he complains. 

In peevish tones and sad : 
"If I had brawn instead of brains 

I'd be as rich as dad!" 

— James J. Montague 

in 'More Truth Than Poetry," published by Doran Co. 

Alcohol and vaseline are now the principal lines in the 
drug business. 

It's a long road that has no roadhouse. 

"I may have been a bad woman — 

but I was good company 1 " 




I went to a funeral the other day. 

Now, kiddos, don't get me down as belonging- to the 
Ancient and Honorable Order of Funeral Followers. 

By no means is your little Editor like one of my minis- 
terial friends who goes to funerals just for the ride. 

In this case, it was the funeral of my good brother soak 
and years-old pal, Mickey McCloud. 

Mickey died about two months ago at this writing, 
and he died happy. I'm wishing myself the same kind 
of a shuffle-off. He was over sixty years old; he had 


seen a lot of the world ; he had known both poverty and 
affluence ; he had consorted much with women and liquor ; 
most of all he was reconciled to death and he took the 
Great Plunge laughingly. 

I was at his bedside just as the old boy was passing 
3Ut. Fellers, you ought to have seen how gaily he took it. 

Mickey's wife sent out for a preacher. 

The preacher came and said : "My friend you had better 
renounce the devil." 

"Renounce the devil," blurted Mickey, "pipe down on 
that stuff brother. I aint in no position to make any 
enemies right now." 


Here's to the good young girls, 

Who often have been sung, 
Those valiant, virtuous pearls 

We're told to be among; 
Their praise is on my tongue, 

I boost the sweet, well-bred ones — 
But then, the Good die young — 

And who in hell wants dead ones? 

— Ignatz 

Little Ignatz's idea of the softest job on earth: Deck 
hand on a Submarine. 








Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : What is a woman's central at- 
traction? — Danny Devil 

Her Soul. 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry: How is hash made? — Sal Stew 
It isn't made. It accumulates. 

* * * 

Regretful Rose: How could you? 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : What is the first thing a fat lady 
does when she enters a theatre on a hot day? 

— Jack Jumpup. 
She takes off her hat and pants. 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry. I keep all my food in the cellar 

HOT D OG 17 

in summer using no ice whatever. What do you think? 

—Mrs. Cooti. 
Heaven loves a virtuous woman. 

* * * 

Sally Smush: He might! 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I'm a good girl. I am a won- 
derful actress. I have been at Hollywood for five years 
trying to break into the movies but without success. 
What do you think is the reason for my failure? 

— Cleo Crummy. 
The first sentence in your letter. 

* * * 

Bereaved Bessie: Wasn't it worth it? 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I am passionately in love 
with a young man and he spurns me. Please, please 
tell me how to win him. — Mildred Muck. 

Let his pal buy you silk stockings. 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I go to an osteopoth twice a 
week to get tuned up and my mother disapproves of it. 
what do you think? — Gertie Gump. 

Read "Night Life in Paris," by Paul deKock and you 
won't need to go to the Osteopath. 

* * * 

Buggy Bertha : Make him marry you or hook his watch. 

* * * 

Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I am nineteen years old and 
have just married a millionaire aged seventy seven. 
What shall I do to make my marriage happy? 

— Sallie Softstuff. 
Move next door to a pool room. 

* * * 

Delicious Dolly: Make him buy you the fur coat first. 




Sir Eric Stonehenge-Buckingham was noted for his 
ready wit. In fact, many of the chroniclers of doings in 
the House of Commons during the Victorian period have 
recorded the unfailing incisiveness of his impromptus. 

One day, during Gladstone's premiership, a fiery Liber- 
al whip was putting the finishing touches to an eloquent 
speech in defense of Irish Home Rule. 

"And what," rhetorically demanded the Liberal, "will 
be the result if we give Home Rule to Ireland?" 

Sir Eric half rose from his bench and drawled : 

"Sir, in that case, the Irish will govern themselves!" 

Tories and Liberals alike shouted "Huzzah" in ap- 
probation of the excellent jest. 






A Heartrending Tale 

by Callimachus Balzoff, the Hot Dog Genuis 

It was a beautiful evening in the middle of February. 

The sleet was pouring down like macaroni from an Or- 
gan Grinder's mouth. The slush was slushing underfoot. 

Bertha Blooie, a sweet and virtuous maid of nineteen 
summers (more or less) was Walking the Dog. She had 
just left the Doughnut Foundry where she sweated for 
her Coffee And. She was on her way to her Modest and 
Inaccessible Hall Bedroom on Montmorency Street. 

Bertha was a Good Girl. Of course, you know what a 
Good Girl is. A, Good Girl is a girl who never has any 
Fun — as far as the neighbors know. Well, Bertha w r as a 
Good Girl. 

Bertha's reputation for Virtue was known throughout 
the town. She wore Highneck Waists and Heavy Wool 
Underwear. She was the Leading Light of the Baracca 
Class. If one of the Gent Members of the Class dared to 
invite her to have a Banana Split she would Smack him in 



the Mouth. Then she would take the Pastor into a dark 
corner and tell him how she had Resisted Temptation. 
This would take an hour. 

Bertha's favorite Indoor Sport was Resisting Tempta- 

As we believe we said before, Bertha was a Good Girl. 

Now a Good Girl never, of course, goes automobile 
riding with strangers. 

But this was a dark and snowy night. It was seven 
miles from the Doughnut Foundry to Montmorency. 
Street and Bertha had covered only three of the seven 

Along came Harold DeBawtch, Second Vice President 
and Comptroller of the Doughnut Foundry. He was 
chugging along in his Limousine. 


"Bertha, my Dear," cooed Harold, "to be walking on 
such a snowy night. Come into my limousine and I will 
drive you home." 

"Say Kookoo, "replied Bertha, "maybe you haven't 
heard the old tale about the Spider and the Fly. But I 
have and the fable has soaked itself under my hairnet. 
Not for Li'l Bertha. I'd rather wiggle my Dogs and re- 
tain my Virtue." 

"But my dear. Surely you would not suspect me, your 
employer, your friend, your fellow-member of the Baracca 
Class, of any Immoral Intentions. And besides, it's such 
a nasty night. Come in and I'll drive you home." 

Alas, and alas. She got into the Limousine. 

No sooner was the door of the Limousine closed, then 
DeBawtch put his foot on the gas and Forgot about the 
Speed Limit. 

Sixty miles an hour they went. Away, away past 
Montmorency Street. 

When they were five miles beyond the City Limits, 
Debawtch cracked his back teeth, stopped the car and 

"Now, my Proud Beauty, you will Do as I Say or 

"I will not do as you say," said Bertha. I don't do 
them things! 

"Then out you go ! 1" and the Villain bounced her 

out on her ear. 

Bertha started to walk. She walked and she walked. 


The mud underfoot was as thick as Sediment in Home 
Brew. She began to cry. 

Heaven intervened. When Bertha had covered about 
two miles, a Roadster came chugging along in her direc- 
tion. The Roadster stopped. 

A familiar face peeped out. It was Aubrey Van Roon, 
Third Vice President of the Doughnut Foundry. 

"Why Bertha," purred Aubrey, walking on such a nasty 
night. Come into my car. I see you are going my way. 

"No Van Roon," replied Bertha, "you shall not Roon 
me. I shall not Flop for your Sugarplum Line. I shall 

"But Honey, why walk? I've got plenty of gas and my 
Brakes are poor. Hop in. You know me, Cutie. I'm 
a Good Scout." 

A sly smile overspread Bertha's features. Even Vir- 
tue has its resources. We shall see what we shall see. 

Bertha climbed into the Roadster. 

This Villain was like all Motor Villains of his ilk. No 
sooner had the Good Girl got into the car, then Aubrey 
took one hand from the steering wheel, put it around Ber- 
tha's waist and Stepped on the Gas. 

But, strange as it may seem, although Aubrey was Cop- 
ping the Feels something outrageous, Bertha made no re- 
sistance and said not a word. 

Not a word said she till she got good and ready. 

When they had been riding about half an hour, Bertha 
was Good and Ready. 



Without any warning, she opened her Gab. 

"Van Roon, you Skunk," said she, "you low down Lin- 
gerie Hound. I believe you have Immoral Intentions to- 
ward me. Know then that they won't pan out any more 
than Czchekoslovak marks in Petrograd. If you are Af- 
ter Something in return for the ride — Buddy you're All 
Wrong. I'm a Good Girl, I am ! !" 

Allright, you Stingy Broad," sneered Aubrey, GET 


Bertha got out. 

A smile played all over her Buck Teeth. 

For the signpost on the corner read MONTMOR- 




An Elegy to our Dead in France 
by Robert W. Service 

For oh, when the War will be over, 
We'll go and we'll look for our dead, 


We'll go when the bee's on the clover, 
And the plume of the poppy is red ; 
We'll go when the year's at its gayest, 
When meadows are laughing with flowers, 
And there, where the crosses are grayest, 
We'll seek for the cross that is ours. 

And so, when the war v/ill be over, 
We'll seek for the Wonderful One, 
And maiden will look for her lover, 
And mother will look for her son ; 
And there will be end to our grieving, 
And gladness will gleam over loss. 
And — glory beyond all believing! 
We'll point — to a name on a cross. 

(With acknowledgments to Barse & Hopkins, publishers) 


We've oft been told by bluenose friars 

That wishing and the deed were one, 
That heaven punishes desires 

As if the deed were done. 
If that is true then you and I 

Are damned to heart's content 
So since at best we won't get by — 

Let's have some pleasure for our punishment. 

Lizzie McCarthy, our skinny stenographer ate an olive 
and the next day six men left town. 



Pok Negri m the Paramount Picture .'The Last Payment' 

Sensatinal has been the rise of Pola. She was born 
Paula Schwartz of a humble Jewish family in Poland. 
First as a dancer, then as a violinist, she vamped and 
tantalized the gay boys of the European capitals till she 
reached her present position — the most piquant cutie on 
the screen. 

How'd you like to buy socks for her? 



by Harry McMurray 

Somehow or other the deep-stuff daddies of the movies 
have lately annexed the bug into their acorns that we 
want Problem Plays with Morals. 

Where do they get it? 

As for me, I don't. Trot me a sweet patootie onto the 
screen with big goo-goo eyes ; give me a plot with plenty 
of surprise situations and plenty of humor and I'm satis- 

List to the titles of some of the recent confections : 
What Do Men Want? Why Girls Go Wrong. What 
Do Women Want? 

Ha ha and hee hee. I know the answer without seeing 
the Drammer. So do you, kiddos. Hot Dog ! 

That reminds me that some time ago a Kansas City 
paper ran a prize contest for men offering $5000 for the 
best answer to the question, "What is the best thing in 
the world?" The editor got 41,347 answers and they 
were all identically the same. 

On the opposite page I am giving you a peep at Pola 
Negri, the new German vamp who has worked her 
way into my hard-boiled cardiac artery and grabbed a 
Half-Nelson on my heart. 

Most of the furrin movies I haven't liked. Especially, 
the much-tooted Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was a frost. 
They told the family people from the suburbs that it was 
Art and the family people fell for the hokum and boosted- 


But I found the Caligari picture pretty dull stuff. It 
was just a disconnected series of episodes. 

But as to Pola. Oh Boy, what a mean pair of optics 
she wiggles ! 


Dear readers, if you got your last month's Hot Dog late 
blame it on Little Ignatz, our Shipping Clerk. 

The cove has been ambling about the warehouse lately 
with his lamps fixed yearningly on the stars. 

The Dummy keeps repeating mysterious words. 

First we thought he was in love. But that wasn't it. 
The truth petered out. Ignatz is studying Phrenology. 
He has absorbed the notion into his bamboo that he can 
learn to read your character from the bumps on your nut. 

Having received some score of dirty letters from our 
newsdealers regarding late shipments, we made a trek out 
to the warehouse. 

There was Ignatz, with the soulful look in his eyes, 
tossing a coin. 

"Hey crum !" we yelped, "do you think the well-known 
Merit Pub. Co. is an Eleemosinary Institution ? In other 
words have you annexed the sweet sentiment that we are 
paying you your beer money for nothing?" 

"Well Boss," replied Ignatz, "it's like this. I've got a 
date with a neat rolled sock tonight and also my Phren- 
ology examination comes tonight. I tossed the coin to 
decide where I'm going to go." 

"How did the toss come out?" we asked him. 

"Heads," tittered Ignatz. "I'm going to the Phrenolo- 
gy class." 




The Profoundest Joke Ever Printed in Hot Dog 

You may have to ponder on this one for three months, 
but it's worth it. 

The heroic spy tried five times to penetrate into the ene- 
my's lines. Five times he was rudely booted forth, till 
the basement of his pants was deeply indented with enor- 
mous hoofmarks. 

Picking himself up, and bravely starting up the guard- 
ed path for the sixth time, our hero murmured : 

"My one regret is that I have but one * for my country." 



by Jazbo De Vinney 

Just when a fellow is trying to forget the Bug known 
as Baseball, or the National Pastime and he thinks he 
has a whole outfit stored away in mothballs to overcome 
the occasional stink, it breaks out again like the measles. 
And there is an aitch of a row. 

At this time about the most unpopular dude in the 
business is Harry Frazee, owner of the Boston American 
League Club. Harry has some so-called theater com- 
panies besides his ball club. The theater companies 
aren't making enough to keep Harry in postage. He 
needs jack and he lets go a couple of his swell pitchers 
to the New York Yankees for a slew of gloves and a bat. 
Then he arranges to ship his first baseman, Stuffy Mcln- 
nis, to Cleveland for Elmer Smith, George Burns and Joe 

Then the fans up in Boston, they yell Bloody Murder 
and they say they ain't going to play with Harry any 
more. They say Harry just rooined their Ball Club and 
the name of their fair city as a baseball village. 

The racket is as plain as the bulge on a bootlegger's 
hip. The New York moguls have the Big Idea. They 
say "Boo" and Mister Frazee jumps through the well 
known hoop. They ship a coupla castoffs for the star 

Be sure to observe Arbor Day this year. Remember 
Wood Alcohol comes from the trees. 



pitchers. Then they let him send Mclnnis away for 
Smith and Burns and Harris. They know that if they 
need any hitters all they need to do is to reach over into 
Boston and grab Smith, Burns or Harris and Frazee 
won't have nothing to say. He don't dare. 

It's a great racket if you are hep ; Cleveland to Boston 
to New York. 

So there you see where the old 1922 pennant will flicker 
over the Polo Grounds for the Yanks again. The Bank 
Roll talks and it is talking Turkey to Frazee. 

But what about the Dude who kicks in every afternoon 
all summer long to get in to see a flock of bums run 

The Girl I Left Behind Me is Away Ahead of Me Now. 


around the bases? What are they slipping him? You 
don't read of any rush to cut down the price of admission 
to help nurse along the dwindling bank roll of the Bloke 
who stands in line at the turnstile every day. Nix, nix, 
He pays and pays big and then the Mogul tosses away his 
dough in the winter for bushers and to keep from paying 
the war tax on excess profits. Yea, verily, it is a great 
racket if you are hep. 

Anyhow there are a couple of more months to go yet 
before the National Scandal breaks loose again on the 
greensward and the poor hicks fall over themselves to 
get a chance to plank down their dough for ducats for 
the opening shame. 

Old man Barnum was not so far wrong when he said 
there was one born every minute. He meant second 
instead of minute for My Gawd they sure do multiply 

So, old boy, you can dig down for a few berries for 
your morning paper and be bunked all winter on the 
. operations of the Financial Giants who back the nation- 
al pastime. Past is good. And then when the good 
old Spring time rolls around the noble athletes will be 
cackling over their own particular band of spavins and 
win right then and there the old pennant. It is done 
every spring. 

So stand in line boys and don't shove. 

Headline from the Brownsville, (Tex). International 

Two American Girls Attacked Below the Border 


—is the cTWilk of 

Human Kindness 

turned Sour 

Hotter and Bigger! 


The next (March) number of the Dog will be 
very much enlarged in size. 

Your regular-fellow reception of the first six 
numbers has so filled in the hollows in my Pants 
that I can afford to be generous. 

Also, I have unearthed some swell new talent, 
fresh from 4he bushes. 

Also, since the Dog has become such a success, 
I have been shoving vittles into my mush regular, 
with the result that the inspiration flows more 
freely than it did in the skinny days of yore. A 
little hot stuff of my own will be on tap besides 
that of the Stalwart Staff. 

I think the March number of Hot Dog will 
be the Cats Whiskers right. The best yet. 

So, on or around the 20th of the month, sleep 
near your news stand.